of Denise Johnson’s “Heat”
Riff off of the lines, "Here in the electric dusk your naked lover / tips the glass high and the ice cubes fall against her teeth."
I watch him scrape the paint off each
toe--semblance of a mortician, hunched
over and too careful. The curve of his back
so mechanical it's repulsive. But of the rhythm
alive in his hands, noisy and professional.
I watch him scrape the paint off each
toe--semblance of a mortician, hunched
over and too careful. The curve of his back
so mechanical it's repulsive. But of the rhythm
alive in his hands, noisy and professional.
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